


Crocker Noir: Murder in the Afterlife

by sburbanite



Series: Afterlives of the Rich and Famous [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: All relationships played for laughs, Film Noir, Gen, Humor, More ships to be added as they sail, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane hosts a film-noir murder mystery evening for the pre-retcon crew.<br/>Some of them take it more seriously than others.</p>
<p>The mayor of Canton is dead, and the pile of suspects doesn't keep from getting taller. Could it be the legendary black widow, the cutesy mistress, the grumpy mafioso or his beatboxing moll? No-one is above suspicion, and Jane Crocker has a feeling it's going to be a long night.</p>
<p>*Will probably never be finished because I can't think of a plot big enough to involve all of the characters*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crocker Noir: Murder in the Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> The Reality: Jane has everyone over to her house for a Noir-themed mystery party. They all have assigned roles/backstory, and they're supposed to work out who killed the Mayor. Mostly they just hang out drinking soda and eating cake.
> 
> This Story: What Jane imagines is happening.
> 
> Inspired by the BMO Noir episode of Adventure Time.

The rain lashes at the windscreen like a jealous lover. The car is ancient, leaking, but struggles valiantly up the steep driveway. Why does old man Sassacre have to live so far outside of town? The doddering idiot is the mayor of this two-bit burg, but you guess that doesn’t mean he wants to smell the vomit in the gutters and hear the sirens scream their lullabies. Up here, the only smells come from the rose garden. Pulling your fedora down against the wind and rain, you exit the bucket of bolts and scuttle beneath the portico. You may be the best detective this burg has to offer, but that doesn’t mean you have a clue why Sassacre has called you up here. 

The door is answered by a woman in a black dress, straight-backed and elegant. Clearly not the help. Her face twists in a sneer as you drip onto the tiled floor, not waiting to be invited in. 

“Jane Crocker, Private Detective.” You introduce yourself, proffering a damp, gloved hand. 

The woman ignores it, turning on her heel with a snort. 

“Mrs Vriska Sassacre,” She calls over her shoulder, “as you would know if you were any sort of detective. My husband is waiting for you, although I can’t think why he’d be desperate enough to call you.” 

Her long dress brushes against the tile, black silk as silent as sin. Perfect for a woman who would lead you straight into hell. But, oh, would you follow, if only for the view. Seven suspiciously elderly and wealthy men have done exactly that, Vriska Sassacre (nee. Serket) is known as the “Black Widow” to everyone outside her earshot. 

The man waiting in the study is nothing like his wife. Crinkly-eyed and smiling, the old coot is every inch the lovable fool he looks on T.V. He waves energetically as you enter, spilling scotch more valuable than your car over his elephantine desk. 

“Hi Jane!! I’m having the best time! Did you see Vriska all dolled up? She looks amazing!” 

Sassacre is behaving more like an overexcited puppy than a respected politician, and his wife clears her throat pointedly. 

“John, you’re supposed to be the fucking mayor, remember? Try to act like it.” 

He smiles sheepishly at her, embarrassed by her sharpness. The woman is a knife in a dress; he must be used to being cut down to size. 

“Of course, uh, dear. Um, Vrisky-poo, could you fetch Miss Crocker a drink? And one for me too, I seem to have spilled mine.” 

She rolls her eyes behind elegant glasses before retreating to fetch refreshments. Sassacre calls after her affectionately. 

“Thanks, toots! I do so love watching you walk away!” 

He giggles at the unladylike swearing coming from the hall. 

You don’t think the oddball is going to get around to the point any time soon, and you spent precious gas money dragging your shapely buns up here. Better jog his memory if you want to get any baking done tonight. 

“Mr Sassacre, you said on the phone that you were in some sort of danger?” 

He smiles and nods, pulling a note out of his desk-drawer and placing it in front of you. 

“Yes, Miss Crocker. I most assuredly am. I’m being blackmailed by someone and I want you to find out whom!” He leans in with a conspiratorial wink, the scent of scotch heavy on his breath, “That way…we can throw them in the slammer!” 

You examine the note, trying to ignore the way Sassacre is chuckling. It reads, simply: 

“WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID. WE’LL BE IN TOUCH.  
CALL THE COPS AND YOU’RE DEAD.” 

A more direct threat you’ve never seen. The writing is block capitals, neutral grey. Nothing to give away the identity of the sender. You can’t help but wonder what kind of dirt anyone could have on this affable joke of a man. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s been a long day, and you could do without empty threats from anonymous sources. The Mayor is as clean as they come in this sewer of a town, and he can afford to pay off anyone who claims otherwise. Still, the boonbucks aren’t exactly rolling in these days, not since your little bakery went under. The detective work doesn’t pay nearly as well as your ex-partner’s new employment, but at least you get to keep your dignity. So long as dignity can be defined as eating soup for every meal and selling cupcakes on the street. 

“Fine, I’ll take the case. Be on the lookout for any trouble, and call me as soon as these jokers get in touch.” Sassacre nods, grinning idiotically, and you excuse yourself with a tip of your fedora. 

It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the knuckleheads dumb enough to threaten the Mayor. Grabbing the note, you head for the door, narrowly missing a head-on collision with an enraged Mrs Sassacre. Not a drop from the tray of drinks is spilled. The woman may be a bitch of the highest order, but she’s an old-school class-act. 

“Leaving so soon?” She enquires, one eyebrow arched. “What a shame. Especially after I had to fish around in the mealblock for fucking ages until I found something that wasn’t Faygo.” 

You just nod; you know when to keep your mouth shut. You’re a seasoned pro at dealing with flighty broads and their snarky horseshit. The drive home is consumed with thoughts of this month’s rent, the skyrocketing price of sugar, and how much you miss Roxy. The girl could burn rice-krispie squares, but she made you smile. She was your best friend. You worry at the fact you haven’t seen her in months. 

Your keys take a tumble into a greasy puddle as you try to fumble them into the lock of your office building. The perfect end to a perfect day. You aren’t supposed to be sleeping here, much less living here, but it’s all you can afford. A couch in the corner of your office can be passed off as customer seating, and it’s slightly less uncomfortable than the floor. For the fifth time this week, you pass out on it without remembering to take off your coat. 

\------------------------------------------------------ 

You wake to the sound of the glass in your door shattering, accompanied by a familiar, if slurred “Oh shit.” Your visitor grasps the handle from inside, and lets herself in. 

Blearily, you stare up at the intruder, taking in the smeared makeup and wild eyes. She’s wearing very little, just a short pink skirt and cropped tee, but she’s got a scarf that goes all the way to the floor. Blinking away the residue of sleep, you recognise the hysterical dame kneading her hands in the middle of your floor. It’s Roxy. 

“Roxy!” You exclaim, “What the hell is a girl like you doing in a place like this?” 

Roxy always did love the gumshoe-talk, but this time it doesn’t provoke one of her musical giggles. 

“Oh Janey, it’s terrrrrible news!!” She throws a hand across her forehead, overcome with emotion. 

“It’s my Johnny! He’s been murdord!”


End file.
